Under Pressure
by The End Of The Beginning
Summary: Lisa Reisert wakes up in a hospital with vivid memories of the redeye flight. However, it never existed…neither did Jackson Rippner, or herself. She’s sent to a mental home in Ireland and meets a surprising array of characters, placing the pieces of what
1. Chapter 1

Summary…Lisa Reisert wakes up in a hospital with vivid memories of the red-eye flight. However, it never existed…neither did Jackson Rippner, or herself. She's sent to a mental home in Ireland and meets a surprising array of characters, placing the pieces of what she has left back together to find her true identity. OTE crossover.

**Disclaimer…Ya. Don't own Red Eye. Sure.**

**Author's Note…I'm a huge Cillian Murphy fan, and I was watching his movie On The Edge when I got this idea to combine my two favorite movies! Enjoy, and please review! **

Her mind was whirring with flashing images of a knife. A gun. A hockey stick. A pen. An…IV?

Lisa forced her eyes open and looked around. She was in the hospital. _That makes sense. Jackson threw me down the stairs._ Upon more developed thought, she shook her head. It throbbed, so she rested it against her pillow. "I was at the bar with Cynthia! Something happened after that!"

"Yes, ma'am, it did." Lisa jumped and looked at the nurse, who was setting a small paper cup filled with water next to her bed.

"Who are you?" Lisa groaned, having difficulty forming words. Her throat felt awfully tight and her mouth held a dreadful aftertaste of what she took to be some sort of medicine.

"I'm the night nurse," she murmured, indicating that Lisa ought to keep her voice down. "Thea. Now, take these pills and go back to sleep."

Lisa took the medicine but didn't yet swallow. The portly African-American nurse stared at her with an expression of frustrated sympathy. "Yes?"

"Why am I here?" As she spoke, Lisa was frantically searching her brain for any memory of what had happened to land her here. Nothing felt wrong with her body. In fact, it felt blissfully numb.

"You took a nasty tumble, ma'am. In the parking lot of the Lux Atlantic resort?" Thea frowned at her. "Remember?"

"No, I…" Lisa touched her head. It still hurt. "No, I don't. All I remember is that _man._"

"What man?"

"Jack…son…Jackson Rippner. He kidnapped me and I killed him. I think." Lisa tried to remember. Had she killed him? She remembered his intense cerulean eyes staring up at him from the hardwood floor of her father's house, but she couldn't recall if they'd actually closed in finality or not. "Did he die?"

Thea looked confused and upset. "Did who die?"

"Jackson Rippner!" Lisa screamed. "Whatever I'm here for, you must have been watching the news!"

"Miss, the biggest story of the week is the mutated cow in Arkansas," the nurse tucked the edges of Lisa's sheets back under the mattress. "Now, please, lower your voice and go back to sleep. While I'm at it, though, would you mind telling me your name and address? And a phone number, too, of some family. We couldn't find any identification on you."

"No, it's no problem," Lisa murmured, distractedly rambling off her name, address, and her father's phone number. Thea said she'd be right back and left the room.

_She's kind of old. She just must not read the current news, or something. I'll ask to see yesterday's newspaper when she gets back._

Lisa thought things over. Yes, the flight had definitely been real. She'd been at her grandma Henrietta's funeral in Texas and on the trip back, a handsome stranger had charmed her into ignorance. Then he'd forced her to make that call to the hotel she managed in Miami so he could kill Charles Keefe. And her dad! Jackson Rippner had wanted to kill her dad, too! But Lisa had beat him by stabbing him in the neck, and stabbing him with her heel, throwing a fire extinguisher at him, hitting him with her hockey stick…he'd only managed to choke her once and throw her down the stairs. And she'd shot him. Her dad had shot him, too. And he'd died. So how come Thea didn't know her story?

Thea came back, a grim puckered brow tugging at her leathered skin. "Ma'am?"

"Yes?" Lisa prompted. "Oh, and call me Lisa."

"I'm afraid I can't call you anything," Thea sighed. "Because this Lisa Reisert doesn't exist. We've pulled up every file possible….nothing."

"But my address!" Lisa cried. "That exists!" _I exist, too! What the hell is going on here?_

"67 Thomson Avenue?"

"Yes!"

Thea cast her eyes to the ground and murmured, "Ma'am, that apartment building burned down two years ago."

"No," Lisa shook her head, clamping her hands over her ears. "What about the number? Did you call my dad?"

"We did try," Thea shrugged. "It said that the number did not exist."

Lisa stared, mouth agape, at her. "Is this some kind of sick joke? Let me speak to another nurse! A doctor! _Anybody!"_

Thea looked at her and seemed uncertain. At Lisa's piercing gaze she bustled out of the room with a brief nod. In a moment, she re-entered with at least three doctors and two nurses.

"Yes?" they all seemed disgruntled at having left their work for the pale brunette in hospital garb.

"Where am I?" Lisa decided, after intense deliberation at what to say.

"Miami General Hospital," one of the doctors, a tall man with bright red hair was the one who answered. His voice held brief impatience, but unlike the rest of the doctors and nurses, he wasn't sighing and rolling his eyes every five seconds. His name tag said Thatch. "Couldn't you just have asked Thea?"

"No, I couldn't have," Lisa snapped. "Are you my doctor, Dr. Thatch?"

He nodded. "Yes, I am. We couldn't find record of any health insurance, medical providers, or even where you're from. So I'm the unofficial fixer-upper." He smiled brightly at her. _No. I'm not smiling until I figure this out._

"Why am I here?"

"Well, according to my file, you made quite a nasty fall to the pavement outside of the Lux Atlantic resort two days ago. Didn't Thea tell you?"

"Yeah, but…" Lisa felt dizzy. Thea helped her lie back down, but Lisa instantly sat back up again. She wouldn't be in that vulnerable position again when she still had a million questions. "Who was I with?"

"Nobody. An older woman reported your incident when she saw you unconscious on the ground. Called 911. You were only there for about twenty minutes."

"What about Jackson Rippner?"

"The prostitute murderer?" Thatch laughed. "He's dead, ma'am. What about him?"

"No, not _Jack the Ripper,_ Jackson Rippner! The man who attacked me on a plane two days ago! The Lux Atlantic was partially blown up by that! I'm the manager!"

"Miss, you're not the manager of the Lux Atlantic," Thea snorted. "I don't know what hyped-up sort of delusional you're dealing with, but I'm going to assume the cause of this is the Morphine."

"Then who is?" Lisa snapped. "Who runs the place?"

"Cynthia Colegrove."

Lisa paused. _Cynthia? **My** Cynthia? Ditzy, redheaded Cynthia who saved the hotel? _"Can I…can I just call her?"

Thea looked at Thatch. The other doctors had left out of lack of interest. The two argued quietly to themselves, but Lisa could hear quite plainly. They were unsure about Lisa's mental stability and feared for Cynthia's safety. _She knows me. She can tell these insane assholes who I am!_

Thatch turned to her, handing her the room phone. "Fine. But keep it quiet. Patients are sleeping." Lisa nodded and dialed the familiar number.

"Lux Atlantic Resort, this is Cynthia."

"Cynthia, it's Lisa!"

"Who?" she sounded mildly agitated.

"Lisa Reisert! I'm…well…I guess I _used to be_ your manager!"

"I'm sorry, the name's not ringing a bell," Cynthia sighed. "Would you like to book a room?"

"No, I would not like to book a room," Lisa snapped. "You _know_ me. We had champagne in the bar of the Lux two days ago!"

"Two days ago, ma'am, I was at my mother's home in Texas," Cynthia informed her. "Now, please, if you aren't booking a room, I'm going to have to ask you to call back some other time because I don't want the line tied up-"

"I DON'T WANT TO BOOK A FUCKING ROOM!" Lisa screamed. There was a long pause, and then a click. Lisa threw the phone to the floor and it shattered. She collapsed, sobbing, on her pillow.

_My dad's number is out. Cynthia has no idea who I am. My name doesn't exist. I don't exist._

Drawing back one more stray hope, Lisa forced in a shuddery breath and spoke again. This was going to be hard, but if she wanted to find her true identity, she'd need to tell the doctors. "I was…raped…two years ago. I came here. Do you have any record of that, even?"

Thea bit her lip and left the room to check. Thatch looked at Lisa, sitting down on the edge of her bed. "You know, ma'am—can I just call you Lisa? We don't even know if that's your real name yet--"

"Yes," Lisa blurted. "You can call me Lisa."

"Sometimes, when patients suffer severe cranial trauma—injuries to the head, that is, they lose memory or sometimes think they're somebody else. We had a patient who was in a car accident the other day who truly believed that he was John Lennon reincarnated." Thatch chuckled lightly and Lisa tried to breathe. _I'm not lying! I am Lisa Reisert! Something has gone really wrong here! _

"I'm not imagining things, Doctor," Lisa said quietly. "I really am Lisa Reisert. I have all the memories, everything! Are you seriously telling me that I'm going insane?"

"No, no," Thatch sighed. "That's not what I'm saying at all. What I'm saying is that whoever you are, you're _not_ Lisa Reisert. She doesn't exist. That's all there is to it. You simply can't be."

Thea came back and shook her head. Lisa slumped against her pillows, unsure of what to say next.

"So, what now? If I 'don't exist', as you say, how do I get a new identity? I feel fine. I'm probably ready to go home." Lisa threw back the blanket. "Can I go?"

Thatch placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Absolutely _not._ You may feel alright, but we're critically concerned about your mental health. We may have to admit you."

"I don't want to stay cooped up in a fucking hospital!" Lisa cried. "I want to get out there and find out what the hell is going on!"  
"Lisa," Thatch sighed. "I have a connection to a guy in Ireland."

"So?"

"Let me continue," he smiled mildly. "Not wishing to cause offense, but you are in need of some serious mental rehabilitation. Now, I don't see you as a threat, so we're not going to admit you to the high-security wards here, but if you begin to become violent, we may have to fit you in."

"I'm not going to be violent," she murmured. "But I don't want to go to a mental hospital. I don't _need_ to."

"You're not the one in charge of that decision, though, Lisa," he sighed. "Like I was saying, I have a cousin who works at the Cliff View Mental Rehabilitation Home in Ireland. It's a great place, there have been great things done there. I'm sure you'll like it."

"No, I won't!" Lisa yelled. "Because I'm not crazy!"

"See, there, Ms. Lisa," Thea smiled sadly at her. "That's often the first sign."


	2. Chapter 2

Lisa popped her gum loudly. The old Celtic driver glared at her in his rearview mirror. She ignored him and went back to staring limply out the window.

None of this was fair. She wasn't _imagining_ things, no insane person ever could have cooked up such a vivid memory. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. What was real anymore? Did her father exist? Did that flight exist? Did her _rape_ exist? Or were Thea and Thatch right, was she dealing with some psychological trauma?

She didn't know. And at the moment, she really didn't care. Pretty soon it wasn't going to matter. She'd be cooped up in a box with a bunch of headbanging nutcases who did actually belong there. She didn't. She didn't belong in Cliff View, she didn't belong in Ireland.

Which she hated. She hated this country already, she knew that much. It was cloudy. Lisa hated that. Her mind was cloudy enough, and some part of her longed for the sun to open up something in her that would guide her towards answers.

The car stopped. Lisa looked up at the menacing gray-white building and the yards around it and sighed. Just what she needed. Another hospital.

As the cabbie helped her out, she realized by the decorations plaguing the exterior of the building that it was Christmas.

_I shouldn't be stuck in some goddamn nuthouse over Christmas. I should be celebrating with Mom, with Dad, with Cynthia…_

"But she doesn't think you exist," Lisa spat bitterly, not realizing that she'd complained out loud until she saw the pained look on the cabbie's face.

"Sorry," she grumbled. "I'm mental, remember?"

He ignored her for once and hefted her bags up the short steps. Lisa followed, her arms tugging her shapeless hospital jacket tighter around her shoulders. The plane ride had been a monstrosity of affairs. Everybody had been staring at the creepy girl in the hospital garb with the lurking bruise on her neck and forehead. There was nothing more encouraging to the fact that you were mentally ill than having people stare at you 24/7. That was enough to drive a person mad completely without cause.

She was led inside to an office, where she was introduced to a brass nameplate carved Dr. Figure. She snapped her gum again. Cabbie glared at her as Dr. Figure the Person came out of his attaching bathroom and took a seat, gesturing for them to do the same. Cabbie, of course, left. Dr. Figure shot her a brief, discriminatory smile and pulled out her file. Lisa slouched.

"So, we don't know our identity?" he murmured.

"Actually, that's a typo," Lisa interjected, sticking out a hand. "I know my identity. My name is Lisa. Lisa Reisert. I'm twenty-eight years old, daughter of Joseph Reisert the former lawyer and Becky the former secretary, residents of Miami, Florida, and Dallas, Texas. Pleased to meet you."

Dr. Figure raised an eyebrow. "The feeling is mutual, Ms. Reisert, but I assure you that this is not a typo."

Lisa forced her eyebrows to mimick his. "Oh, really, Dr. F? Are you 180 sure about that? Because I'm not. I know who I am, and I'm not a bit too pleased at being here."

"None of the patients ever are, ma'am."

"Even the headbangers?"

"Yes, even the-" he frowned. "What did you say?"

She chewed her gum. "Never mind. So am I free to go?"

He sighed. "No. Now, please sit back down. You hit your head. Correct?"

"Yes. I was at the ba- I was at the hotel in Miami that I work-worked, at with my best friend, Cynthia, who is now being paid off to say that she doesn't know me, or something. I guess I fell and hit my head."

He scribbled down a few notes. "Ok. What happened up to a week before that?"

Lisa thought. "Let's see….work Monday, work Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, but on Friday I got a call from my mom in Dallas saying that my grandmother had died. Henrietta."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He attacked the paper with his ballpoint again. "Please continue. Anything else?"

"Oh, yes. I went to her funeral that Saturday and was taking the red-eye back that night when I met a man."

"A man?"

"No, a woman," Lisa rolled her eyes. "Yes, a man. He was charming and absolutely gorgeous. He had the most piercing blue eye-" She cleared her throat. "Yes. Well. Anyway. None of that mattered, as he turned out to be the most astoundingly huge _asshole_ that I'd ever met. Once we were in the air, he told me that I had to call my hotel and switch Charles Keefe's room so that he could kill him."

"So Charles Keefe could kill this man? What's his name, by the way?"

"No, so Jackson Rippner-that was his name-could kill Charles Keefe. He's a huge political figure in the States."

"I know who he is." _Edgy, edgy, especially for a psychiatrist._

"So Jack was an assassin-for-hire and wanted me to make the call. Supposedly, I was the only one who could do it and if I didn't his guy waiting outside my dad's house back in Miami was going to kill him."

"The guy in Miami was going to kill Mr. Rippner?"

"He was going to kill my dad. You good?"

"Please proceed."

"So, I kept trying to get away. I wrote in a book, talked on the phone to nobody, wrote on the mirror, got strangled, talked to Cynthia and changed the room, the plane stopped, I told Jackson about my rape-"

"Hold the phone," Dr. Figure held up a hand and wrote furiously. "What was that last?"

Lisa looked away. So much for acting careless. "I…I was raped. Two years ago."

His head snapped up and scanned the file. "Oh, yes. I see now, right here. Did this case ever go to court?"

Lisa shook her head. "They never found the dirty bastard who did it. They said if I'd come in earlier…" she choked up and covered her face with her hands.

Dr. Figure was, for once, quiet. When she came back up, her face was tearstained, and she knew it. "Can I…can I go back to the flight?"

"Yes."

"So, I…um…I told him about that to…well, soften him up, I guess. I had to. When he was vulnerable, I stabbed him with a Frankenstein pen. I got away and told Cynthia to nix the last call, ran over the hitman, found my dad all safe, Jack came back, I threw a fire estinguisher at him, headbutted him, stabbed him with my heel, slammed him with my hockey stick. He threw me down the stairs, I shot him once, my dad shot him once, he died. I think. I never really found out. I think he was still alive when I was with Cynthia that night."

Dr. Figure had written all this down. "I see. Forgive me for my momentary confusion. So, are you absolutely positive that this wasn't simply a dream?"

"One hundred and a half percent. I know I didn't dream this. I still feel pain from everything he did to me. Everything hurts. Even…" she touched her chest, "even my heart hurts. He hurt me."

Dr. Figure nodded. "Lisa, I would love to talk to you more today, but I'm afraid we've run out of time. I strongly urge you to thoroughly examine your mental situation. Just be open to the fact that this might not have happened. It's highly possible and at this stage I'm not ruling anything out. I will continue calling you Lisa or Ms. Reisert, whichever you prefer, as it is simply easier than creating an alias, but do not resign yourself to her identity. Are we understood?"

She nodded grumpily.

"Good. Now, I will show you to your room, and we have group session in ten minutes. I'm afraid we had to fit you in with the younger group, as our older groups are absolutely full and besides, they're mostly elderly coping with complete schizophrenia or the likes. "

She sighed carelessly. "Fine. Room?"

He nodded and led her to a vacant, boring and small closet-like room down a set of stairs and at the end of the hall.

Lisa tossed her bags on the bed and decided she'd worried about unpacking later. Not that she had that much with her, as her belongings had supposedly "burned down" two years ago.

Dr. Figure led her to another room down the hall, a larger and more brightly lit one. In the center sat several chairs. Dr. Figure took one and she sat next to him. She wasn't sure if she liked this guy, but at least he was relatively familiar.

Three kids were there already. A boy with his head tilted back and headphones clamped tightly over his ears, and two others.

Lisa looked at the girl first. A pair of legs that were not her own kept sliding up on her lap. "Jon!" she giggled in an American accent. "You're such an idiot! Grow up!"

Lisa's attention fell on the face of the boy next to her and when she saw him she panicked. Her hands flew tightly to the armrests of her wooden chair and her breathing became shallow.

"Jackson," she murmured, but it came out more as a dry squeak.

This boy had long, straight dark brown hair, like Jackson. He had piercing blue eyes, like Jackson. He had pale skin and a wiry frame…like Jackson. Everything was the same, except that instead of a suit he wore a disgusting orange sweater and pajama bottoms.

He looked at her and smiled. "Hello," he said, his voice riddled with a thick Irish accent. "My name's Jonathan Breech, missy, who are you?"

She stood up and glared at him. "You know damn right who the hell I am."

Dr. Figure frowned at her. "Lisa, are you alright…?"

"Like hell I am! Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"I have no idea what you-"

She was already gone, out of the room. She was getting out of here. She wouldn't be stuck in this nuthouse with the biggest nut of all, that she was damn sure of.


End file.
